


it's not warm when she's away

by Freedie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freedie/pseuds/Freedie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d been the sun of Mirkwood – a warm light for all their people to share, a helping hand to reach out to those in need,  a kind smile to brighten any room – and now she was gone. No amount of suffering would drown out the growing hollowness in his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not warm when she's away

**Author's Note:**

> re-upload of the fic i wrote right after the botfa premiere
> 
> thanks to the great [finalizer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer) for editing and suggestions

Thranduil’s eyes opened abruptly. 

His immediate first thought was that he was still on the battlefield, with the brightness and the blurred figures and all the voices surrounding him. His instinct told him to get up and fight. He shuffled, trying to sit up, his hand instinctively searching for his sword and finding nothing. His breath stopped, no, _no, he had to get up, he had to save her…_

A hand rested softly on his shoulder and Thranduil’s head snapped towards the point of unexpected contact, ready to defend himself with his whole body.

“Your majesty,” he heard an unknown but calming female voice.

Thranduil blinked a few times, hesitantly looking around, as his vision finally adjusted to the light and he could finally make out the details of his surroundings. The bright colors turned out to be nothing more than the light fabric of his tent, the unfamiliar voices belonging to a pair of healers bustling around him. He found himself laying on a makeshift bed, still wearing parts of his battle armor – only now did he realize his skull was pulsing with pain and a whole part of his face felt as if it were burning. His whole body felt numb and he wish for nothing more than to slip back into sleep. 

He set his jaw trying not to think about it. This was not important. _He_ was not important. He needed to know if she had made it out alive – no, of course she had. He needed to know if she was _safe_.

Thranduil looked up at the healer standing beside his bed, fixing her with an expectant look. She pulled away her hand, a kind smile slipping onto her lips.

“My lord, we have won the battle. We – ”

“That is not what I’m asking you,” the elvenking interrupted her impatiently. He sounded exasperated, despite his voice being hoarse from disuse. Every movement of his lips caused him pain, but he didn't let it show, his face as blank and unreadable as ever. The woman just looked at him in mild confusion.  


“The queen,” he clarified. “Did she return safely? I wish to see her.”

It did not fail to catch Thranduil’s attention how the serene expression on the healer’s face faded. She shifted on her feet, desperately trying to keep the smile on her face. Thranduil felt an odd twinge in his chest.

The healer cleared her throat, but did not reply.

“Answer me! Did the queen return safely?” Thranduil raised his voice. He was now sitting up straight, the rapid movement making his vision blur for a second as pain flashed through his body. He managed to fix his gaze back on the woman, eyes wide open, expression sharp and cold, nearly piercing right through the her. His appearance was disheveled – dangerous and inhuman; almost like an animal, lost and confused, surrounded by huntsmen. 

The smile was now gone from the healer’s face. She shifted on her feet as she bowed down her head, seemingly unable to look her king straight in the eyes.

“My lord, you should know that we are all in grief – ”

Thranduil stopped listening. He felt his stomach turn into ice. He tossed away his sheets, his vision blacking out for a second as his feet touched the ground and he got up. He pushed past the healer, despite her protests, and headed towards the entrance of the tent, swaying on his feet.

“My king, it is not advised to leave the tent in your current state!” the woman called after him, then shouted something to someone in the background, but the king didn’t listen. He pulled aside the flap of the tent and stepped outside. A few heads turned to him in surprise and bowed, greeting him with respect, but he couldn’t hear them. The world suddenly went mute. The only sound was the loud thumping of his heart in his chest. 

_He had to find her. She’s alive, she’s safe and alive, she’s not… She’s not…_

Even in his mind Thranduil couldn’t bring himself to consider what might have happened.

He found himself straying further away from the camp, instinctively heading towards the battlefield. He saw faces, heard distant voices, but everything was blurred, mixed into nothing. He had to get away, farther and farther, away from the noise and the chaos. He knew she was somewhere out there and he had to find her, he had to hold her in his arms and bury his face in her hair – had to be certain she was safe.

_She’s alive. She’s alive._

He felt cold sweat on his forehead and he was having difficulty catching his breath. 

_She’s alive… She’s…_

_She –_

Thranduil didn’t know when he’d stopped. He felt weak and, when his legs gave out from the strain, he dropped to his knees. The world around him was spinning and he couldn’t breathe. He dug his shaky hands into the cold, frozen ground, trying to look for some source of stability, trying to anchor himself to reality.

_She was dead._

Thranduil stared blankly at the ground. The thought struck him mercilessly like a dagger through the heart. His wife, whom he loved beyond anything else, was dead. He let out a helpless sound as he gasped desperately for the breath that wouldn’t quite reach his lungs. 

She’d been the sun of Mirkwood – a warm light for all their people to share, a helping hand to reach out to those in need, a kind smile to brighten any room – and now she was gone. Her passing was not only a blow to Thranduil himself, but to the entire realm that’d lost their beloved queen. And in spite of that, Thranduil couldn’t help but keep his mind on his individual loss. He would never again be able to hold her in his arms, stroke her hair, see her bright eyes staring back at him. And their son –

Thranduil curled his hands into fists, fingernails digging painfully into his palms, hoping physical pain would numb out the one inside him. But there was no cure for what’d happened – he was being torn apart from inside by a force much more hurtful than dragon fire – and no amount of suffering would drown out the growing hollowness in his chest.

His whole body felt numb and he found himself unable, unwilling to move. He might have knelt there in the same place for hours, days, maybe years, until he finally could breathe evenly again. 

At last he heard voices coming from very far away – maybe they were closer than he thought – but he didn’t bother to look up to their source. He wished they would stop and leave him alone.

“My king,” a man’s voice suddenly resounded from somewhere close by. “My king, we must go now.”

He didn’t bother with a reply. He felt hands grabbing him and pulling him up to his feet, and he didn’t protest; he couldn’t find the strength. As he was being led back to the camp, he vaguely glanced at the faces of his people, full of grief, muttering words of condolences. He stared at them blankly, as if they were ghosts – all of this was unreal to him - the elves, the tents, the battle he’d fought in, even the ground beneath his feet. He felt as if he were walking through a nightmare.

Thranduil let himself be directed back into the bed and covered with blankets. Soft hands ran over his scarred face and the other wounds on his body, tending to them with quick, precise movements. A warm herbal liquid was poured into his mouth and he forced himself to swallow it. He felt as if whole hours passed before the last person finally left the tent, letting him rest, leaving him alone with his grief – only then did he allow the tears to fall freely down his cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://noahczernys.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/nygmalovesboys)


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